Off Script

by Graham Hurley

  At this point, I’m tempted to laugh. I know nothing about Seb O’Leary, about the war zones he’s reported from, about the awards he’s doubtless won, about his book deals and his appearances on Newsnight. Every conversation like this, I tell myself, is an audition. And Seb O’Leary has failed to land the part.

  He’s studying me across the table. He’s smiling. Any moment now, he’s going to order another Pernod. Because he thinks he’s won.

  ‘You’re ready?’ He pulls the waiting pad towards him. ‘We can talk now? Be nice to each other? Behave like decent human beings?’

  ‘In your dreams,’ I say. And leave.

  DS Williams calls me less than an hour later. I’m on the clifftop path that leads to a village called Budleigh Salterton, trying to purge the anger from my soul.

  Williams is apologizing in advance for what she suspects might be an awkward conversation and I know at once that she’s been talking to the man I left at the Premier Inn.

  ‘This is about O’Leary,’ I tell her. ‘It has to be.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘He phoned you.’

  ‘Half an hour ago. I think you upset him.’

  ‘Good. At least he was listening.’

  There’s a brief silence. I haven’t finished with O’Leary, nor – for that matter – with DS Williams.

  ‘Someone gave him Pavel’s phone number,’ I say. ‘Someone told him where to find me. Was that you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Someone else in your organization?’

  ‘Very possibly.’

  ‘Why? Why did you do that? And how come this man knows so much about Carrie? And about what she told me that afternoon I went round to find her?’

  ‘Not me, Ms Andressen.’

  ‘But someone else? Some other officer? Did I hear you properly? Was that what you just said?’

  Williams doesn’t need a conversation like this, and it shows. She begins to deny it could be anyone in uniform or CID. She quotes some code of practice or other. Witness rights are sacrosanct, she says. Big fucking deal.

  ‘It must have been a civilian, then? You have a press office? People who deal with the media?’

  ‘We do, yes.’

  ‘And?’

  Nothing. No admission. No corroboration. Just a faint whistling noise which may be the wind funnelling up the nearby cliff face. For a moment, I think she’s thrown in the towel and ended the conversation. Far from it.

  ‘This is difficult,’ she says for the second time. ‘I think you know what we all feel about the MH issue. It’s a question of public awareness. People out there need to know how bad things have got on the mental health front. Something has to be done.’

  ‘So, you sent O’Leary? Briefed him? Told him what I’d told you?’

  ‘We had no choice in the matter, Ms Andressen. He carries weight. So does that paper of his. I’m told he has a huge personal following, people of influence, people who can change things, people who read what he writes and believe it.’

  ‘You had every choice in the matter.’ I’m angry again. ‘Have you met this man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should. It’s a word I rarely use but the man’s a dickhead. I’m used to being patronized but he needs more practice.’

  I think I hear a laugh, or at least a chuckle, at the other end. For one brief moment, DS Williams and I are allies.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I say. ‘Take a look at the man. Sit him down and listen to him. In my trade, he wouldn’t even get a walk-on part.’

  ‘You think we can do better than him? Be frank.’

  ‘I do. That’s exactly what I think.’

  ‘But you agree with the cause? What we’re trying to achieve here?’

  ‘About mental health? Of course I do. It’s a scandal, a disgrace. But there are people you shouldn’t even consider and in my book O’Leary is one of them.’

  Williams seems to agree. She tells me that all this is way beyond her pay grade. She knows very little about the media and if I want the truth, she’s never heard of Seb O’Leary.

  ‘What about someone else?’ she suggests. ‘What if we come up with another name?’

  I shake my head and tell her again that I’m as shocked as she is about the lack of provision for people like Moonie but I’m shocked, as well, by the way Operation Mandolin has shared stuff I assumed to be confidential.

  Another silence. Then she’s back on the line.

  ‘Why don’t you find someone?’ she suggests. ‘How might that work?’

  The conversation ends shortly afterwards. I tell her it’s an interesting thought, but I’d need a guarantee that O’Leary will stay well clear. No more phone calls. No more boasts. No more bullshit. The latter makes her laugh again. She’s honest enough to admit that what she calls her clout in this affair is strictly limited, but I think we part as friends.

  Moments before I hang up, I enquire whether Mandolin has a name for Moonie yet. I have one from Karen, of course, but I need to be sure.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Williams says at once.

  ‘Because I have a stake in this game. Someone I liked very much got killed.’ I pause. ‘Well … you have a name?’

  ‘Yes, we do. This is in confidence?’

  Confidence? I resist the temptation to laugh.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell her, ‘of course.’

  ‘His name is Jason Macreadie. His mother came forward after the photos were published. He also turns out to be on the MP list.’

  ‘MP?’

  ‘Missing persons. We looked there, of course, but somehow we never bottomed it out. Is that all, Ms Andressen? If so, I’d like to thank you for your patience.’

  I tell her she’s welcome and the conversation comes to an end. I’ve taken her call on the highest point of the cliff path. Ahead lies the sprawl of a holiday camp, acre after acre of mobile homes, and when I venture as far as the cliff edge, I realize that I’m looking down at what must be Sandy Bay. The sun is out but the bite of the wind has kept the huge expanse of sand virtually empty.

  I peer down. I count maybe a dozen stick figures, most of them with dogs. Then my attention is caught by someone else. He’s wearing scarlet shorts and a trackie top and he’s jogging into the sun, short steps, the balls of his feet just metres away from the lapping tide. Then, as I watch, he spins round, running backwards now, swinging punch after punch at his own shadow, short jabs, heavy uppercuts, his upper body swaying left and right. It’s a mesmerizing image and I know with absolute certainty that it will stay with me forever. My man. My Deko. En pleine forme. Fighting himself.

  THIRTY

  I have Mitch Culligan’s number on my directory and I wait until I’m back at the apartment before I make the call. The last time we met, more than a year ago, he was still living in Hither Green, in a characterful semi I remember well.

  He’s checked his caller ID and answers at once. Happily, he seems pleased to hear from me. I ask him if everything’s going OK.

  ‘Everything’s fine. The world is madder than ever, but you don’t need me to tell you that. And you? All well?’

  This is code for the tumour. I tell him it’s behaving itself. For now.

  ‘And Sayid?’ I ask him. ‘You’re still together?’

  Sayid, last time I checked, was Mitch’s live-in lover, a Syrian asylum-seeker who fled an assortment of warlords and ended up in the back of a lorry, heading for Calais. In his native Aleppo, he worked as a consultant in a hospital Assad bombed to pieces, but now, according to Mitch, he’s appeared before some Home Office tribunal or other, argued his case, and won.

  ‘Permanent right to remain,’ Mitch confirms. ‘Can you imagine the difference that makes?’

  As it happens, I can. I got to know Sayid a couple of years back and – like everyone else who’s ever met him – I found his company enchanting. Wonderful eyes, too, and a cake-maker of serious talent.

  ‘Tell him I’m thrilled,’ I say, ‘and give him a big hug from me.’ />
  Mitch grunts something I don’t catch and asks me what I want. This abrupt change of conversational gear stirs a number of memories, not all of them pleasant, but I’ve made a decision and I’ve no intention of backing off.

  ‘You’re still freelancing?’

  ‘Of course. It’s the only game left in town if you want to rattle a few cages.’

  I tell him about Carrie, about Moonie, and about my own involvement. It turns out he’s kept track of the story, sort of, but I can tell from his voice that I’ve caught his interest.

  ‘This is about the mental health thing, yeah?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘This is about the kid you saw in the papers, on the telly. That’s where it begins and ends, at least in my little head.’

  I realize I’ve lifted this verbatim from Seb O’Leary, but I don’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt. Getting one thing right doesn’t excuse the rest of our brief conversation.

  ‘You’re a material witness?’ Mitch asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re plugged in to the investigation? Have the ear of the SIO, maybe?’

  ‘I have a contact or two.’

  ‘Have they found this Moonie yet?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘So, what do you want me to do?’

  I explain as briefly as I can about police efforts to raise media interest in the wider implications of the case. Mention of Seb O’Leary draws a bark of laughter from Mitch.

  ‘I thought he was dead.’

  ‘I think he might be.’

  ‘You’ve met him?’

  ‘This morning. It wasn’t a long conversation.’

  Another grunt from Mitch. Then he says he’s in.

  ‘Just one condition.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t talk to O’Leary again. Or anyone else.’

  As soon as I put the phone down, I’m wondering what I’ve done. I like to think I know Mitch Culligan well. I don’t trust him completely because certain situations force journalists like him to put loyalty to a larger cause ahead of any personal commitments. Moonie may well turn out to be a case in point but those hideous moments in Carrie’s bedroom have convinced me that something has to be done about mental health. In my heart, I know that Moonie – Jason – killed Carrie. The fact that it wasn’t his fault, the fact that society – all of us – should have realized just how volatile and dangerous he could be, is the real point. Jason Macreadie should never have been walking the streets in the first place. For his sake, as well as ours, he needed looking after.

  When I phone Karen, she picks up at once. She seems eager to talk. She tells me she enjoyed yesterday. No way would she ever have agreed to meet me but now it’s happened, and we’re mates, and she’d be very happy to get together again.

  Mates. I take this as a compliment. I mention Mitch Culligan. I tell her he’s a good friend and a decent journalist. He doesn’t write rubbish, I assure her, and when something matters to him he works hard to get it right. There’s a letter from me in the post to her but in the meantime something else has happened.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like Mitch. He wants to take your story on.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He’d need to come and see you. For a chat.’

  ‘Would you be there?’

  ‘If that’s what you want, of course.’

  ‘Then yes. The answer’s yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Whenever you like. I don’t go out much.’

  I’m back on the phone to Mitch within minutes, suggesting a meet in Weston with Moonie’s mother. Nice woman, I tell him. Interesting flat.

  ‘You’re telling me you’ve met her? His mum?’

  ‘We’re mates,’ I tell him. ‘We had a long conversation yesterday. I made some notes. I’ll mail them over. How about tomorrow?’

  There’s a brief silence. I think I can hear Sayid’s voice in the background. Then Mitch is back on the line.

  ‘Tomorrow’s fine.’ He’s laughing. ‘Send me the notes. You’re in the wrong fucking business.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Mitch has taken the train from Paddington and I agree to pick him up at Taunton. He emerges from the station in his trademark grey anorak and baggy jeans. He’s still bearded, still flat-footed, still a plodder, but he’s lost a bit of weight and it suits him.

  ‘Blame Sayid,’ he grunts, climbing into the car. ‘He promised me jogging for beginners and we’ve ended up doing five milers, three times a week. I’ve never been so bored in my life.’

  This has to be hyperbole, most journalists’ stock-in-trade. Secretly, I suspect Mitch approves of his new self. He says he’s cutting down on the booze, as well.

  ‘Sayid, again?’

  ‘Of course. That man was born a saint.’

  En route, Mitch tells me about one or two of his current projects. He’s acquired a new friend at the northernmost settlement on earth, a Canadian weather station called Alert just five hundred miles from the North Pole, and he says some of the latest temperature readings are seriously scary. Global warming has been a passion of his for years.

  Mitch has never been to Weston before but what he sees on the way in doesn’t surprise him. Scruffy industrial estates. Boarded-up units. Heavy security outside supermarkets. Kids on their bikes pulling wheelies in the middle of the road, eager for their day in court.

  ‘Karen says they’re after minor injuries,’ I tell him. ‘Something they can blame on careless drivers.’

  ‘Karen’s right.’ Mitch has seen the same thing in towns and cities in the north. ‘A minor break? Abrasions and PTSD? Get the right lawyer and you’re talking serious money. One day, litigation will be all we have left.’

  I park around the corner from the betting shop. I’ve tried to get hold of Karen but she’s not picking up. On the point of ringing her doorbell, I hear voices coming down her stairs. Karen’s I recognize. The other one is also familiar. Shit, I think.

  I’m right. The door opens, and there he is, Seb O’Leary, tote bag on his shoulder, a wide smile on his face. He and Mitch exchange nods. Karen is looking uncertain.

  ‘Enora?’ she says.

  O’Leary has turned to say goodbye. He plants a kiss on her pale cheek and holds her briefly at arm’s length. ‘Fascinating talk, my precious. Real pleasure. Take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch.’

  Moments later, before either of us can react, he’s striding across the road in those leather cowboy boots. He’s driving what looks like a hire car and he gives us a little wave as he floors the throttle and accelerates away.

  Upstairs, in the fuggy chaos of her room, Karen does her best to explain. She hadn’t really followed me on the phone last night, her fault, and when she opened the door to O’Leary first thing this morning, she assumed he was the bloke she’d been expecting.

  ‘But I’d have been there, too,’ I point out.

  ‘Yeah, but I thought you must have been caught out by the traffic or something. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. You must think I’m losing it, and you’re right.’

  Mitch presses her further. He wants to know exactly what she’s told O’Leary. She starts to ramble, but the short answer is more or less everything. He’d brought her fresh bread, hot from the bakery at Sainsbury’s. He’d stayed a couple of hours. He’d put up with the bloody cat. He’d been really nice to her, and afterwards she’d been more than happy to go through the photos with him.

  ‘Photos?’ This is going from bad to worse. Shots of Jason as a kid, she says. Snaps of him and his dad the day they’d all taken the bus to Bristol Zoo. Plus a photo she especially cherished.

  ‘Brad took it on his birthday years ago. Jason was sitting on my lap with that stuffed bunny he’d never let out of his sight. He looked really happy.’ She’s smiling at the memory. ‘Mr O’Leary said he’d make copies and send them all back. Next week, he said. “Phone me if they don’t turn up.”’

  I ask to see the
number. She’s written it down on the back of a utilities bill.

  ‘Did he offer you money?’ I ask.

  ‘Never. And I wouldn’t have taken it, neither.’

  ‘Cheap date, then.’ This from Mitch. ‘What’s he going to do with it all? Did he say?’

  ‘Yeah. He said he’d go away and put it all together. He thought next week for the spread in the paper.’

  ‘Spread?’

  ‘Yes.’ She seems to have brightened. ‘He thinks this might be the breakthrough. That’s the word he used. Breakthrough. He said there was no way other papers wouldn’t pick it up. TV, too. Once Jason read it, he was bound to come forward because he wouldn’t be frightened any more. All people had to do was understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘What it’s like to be Jason. To be inside that head of his. That’s what you said, too.’ Karen’s looking at me. ‘Last night on the phone.’

  It’s true. That’s exactly what I said, except that Mitch would have made a far better job of it.

  ‘Damage limitation,’ Mitch mumbles. We’ve taken Karen to lunch in a pub on the seafront and he’s trying to get O’Leary on the phone. Karen drinks fizzy cider sweetened with cherry juice, and I’ve persuaded her to have something to eat. The pub is advertising a mid-week OAP offer, coley and chips for under a fiver, and the place is packed. Karen peels back the thick layer of soggy batter and picks at the grey flesh underneath while Mitch keeps stabbing at his mobile. He thinks that O’Leary might be up for a deal, and he doesn’t appear to be listening when I tell him that’s unlikely.

  As it happens, I’m wrong. Legally, Mitch says, it would be suicidal for O’Leary’s paper to publish anything ahead of a possible trial. Which leaves him only one option.

  ‘The internet?’

  ‘Of course. He needs a platform, ideally abroad. Libération might carry it. Charlie Hebdo, for sure.’

  ‘But O’Leary knows Paris. He speaks French. He’s got an apartment there. He tried to sell it to me.’

  ‘O’Leary’s full of shit. Even assuming it’s true, he still needs the contacts. I know these people. They trust me. There’s a deal in there somewhere, I know there is.’